Welcome to the Asylum for the Criminally Insane
by MACHOxMAN
Summary: Insanity. They say it's an impared contact with reality. What they fail to realize is that it's the only sane reaction to actuality once you've seen the truth behind their reality. The world is messed up. I've seen it. "M" for blood, gore, and language.
1. Welcome to Bella's World

**Hey guys, it's your friendly neighborhood Macho Man! This story is being rewritten. If this is the first time you are opening this story to this particular message, then you haven't read the old chapters, and may disregard this message for the most part. For those of you who have read the old chapters, I have so far received positive feedback upon using these new ones verses the old ones. The chapters have pretty much the main same ideas to them but try not to skim through, though. The chapters are much more detailed, containing even more wonderfully confusing aspects of the "mystery" surrounding Bella.**

**I would like to add a DISCLAIMER (this is exiting; I've never actually made one before but feel that it's needed). **

**DISCLAIMER: I know very little to absolutely nothing about criminals and weapons and killing and stuff like that. What is written pertaining to the subject is either an educated fictional guess on my part, absolutely false, googled, or not included. If you are a criminal mastermind or mafia/gang leader (…..) and the facts bother you or offend you in any way, please (don't hunt me down and hurt me first off…) PM me or something and you can inform me on the ways of the truly criminally insane. Also, I am not Stephenie Meyer, the author of Twilight. Nor do I have her fascination for the word "inconspicuously". ;)**

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"_**To perceive is to suffer." ~Aristotle**_

Many people have spent their whole lives contemplating the concept of death. Some have even gone as far as to appoint numerous deities of various sensibilities depicting their elusive fixation. The Grim Reaper, Angels of Death, ghosts, animals imbued in heaps of personification, and even sketchy prophecies predicting the twilight of one's time are all prime examples of humanity's vain efforts of shedding light on the unknown frontier. The ironic fact is, these people waste their own lives chasing after a notion that if unraveled would do little more than quell their cowardice of leaving the world they hold dear and the fear of being left existing as little more than a rotting carcass under the feet of disregarding generations.

No one wants to be forgotten.

I stare in the face of death almost daily. So much so, it has ceased to be a novelty for me years ago--back when the only villains in a child's life should have been words on a printed page, able to be confined tightly within the inescapable covers of a storybook. However, every time, I couldn't help but wonder at how easily the string of life could be cut short; how fragile a human life truly is. At times, it still frightens me the sheer amount of power that one being can hold over another.

My eyes were hazed with adrenaline, my body pounded with the all-too-familiar rush before the kill. Those who crossed my path rarely made it out alive, mostly because those who did were lowlifes worse than I was. They deserved termination. Blood boiled through my veins, both spurring me on and reminding me of my own vulnerabilities.

I was backed against a building's wall in a stereotypical dark alley with five men stalking towards me. All of them were at least twice my size, I estimated. One had the silhouette of a gun strapped to his midsection. The one in front was huge--obviously all muscle, strutting forward with malicious intent evident in each step. There was a scrawny guy to his left lithely tagging along. The last two in the back were of similar statures and possibly armed. I braced myself.

"Hello gentlemen, might I ask what brings you to this part of Bronx at this late hour?" I asked in an uncharacteristically confident voice. I was in full work mode, no longer myself.

"We could ask you the same thing," the big guy leered, "bad things happen to little ladies like yourself 'round here." His buddies chortled in agreement. I smirked. The night was dark, but the hearts the people in the alley were impossibly darker.

"Whatever do you mean?" My voice rose up a few octaves sarcastically. They laughed again. Each mind was stringing together wicked imaginings. I could almost feel the emotional tension within our posse. Perhaps someone was thinking what he'd to with me, another plotting the best way to kill his way to the top, yet another suspicious of why that prostitute always leaves behind a single wilted rose petal. When the water is murky, there is no way to tell what lies beneath the surface.

"Alright, here's the deal. Come quietly, it won't be _too_ bad," he cooed, amused.

"If I refuse…" I kept up my innocent façade, knowing they were in too deep to notice.

"Well, more fun for us then. Your loss, little lady," I could just make out his wink in the darkness. I sighed in faux exasperation and pretended to examine my nails.

"Well, I'm going to have to refuse on both your proposals, although they are tempting," I smiled as the guy signaled to the scrawny henchman on his left with the twitch of a finger. They were so predictable.

The scrawny guy rushed at me and at the last minute I raised a fist to collide with his face. I heard the satisfying crunch just before he kneeled over in pain. Immediately the one with the gun took it out and aimed at me. This was too easy. I raised my arms in mock defeat.

"Now then, let's all play nice here," the boss's voice oozed with malice.

"I don't play nice," I growled menacingly. As I recognized the signal to fire, I grabbed Scrawny from beside me and threw him in my place just as the gun shot rang out. I heard the wet sound of impact and the thud of a limp body falling to the ground. I deftly slipped a knife from my belt and threw it with extreme concentration at the gunman's hand before the attackers managed to process what had occurred. My aim rang true and met its mark. Gunman's agony packed voice cracked with profanities and the gun itself was discarded into a wall with a reverberating clang.

"Fucker," the big man cursed and fumbled out his own handgun. I ran, knocked it out of his hands and hit his head with the barrel end. The two guys from the back of the crew took this moment to advance on me. I back kicked one crony in his thigh as I took out another one of my knives to slash at the other crony's arm, attempting to penetrate to the muscle. By this time, the Big Guy's momentary daze wore off. With a blinding speed I made two opposite slashes on his neck that began to bleed profusely, buying me more time as he desperately clutched at the wounds.

Through my peripherals I noticed the Gunman virtuously endeavor the pain in his arm to try and help his pals, only to trip over Scrawny's, in all probability, dead body and fall flat on his face. The boss was looking slightly disoriented from loss of blood and the blow to the head but was stubbornly refusing to lose so easily.

The man whose shin I kicked made a grab for me so I lodged my knife into his neck, chocking his groans in blood. I took out two more knives from my belt and slashed at his legs in quick succession, rendering him immobile, before turning and stabbing his friend between the ribs in the same movement. Both fell to the ground like sacks of potatoes.

Before I knew it, it was just me and Big Guy. He was staring in disbelief and awe as the blood pounded through his neck with every rushed heartbeat. His face was gradually turning paler and his lips were tinged blue. With a shudder he fell to his knees in defeat. I picked up his handgun from beside him and he looked at me with pleading eyes.

"P…please…" he whispered. Blood bubbled from between his lips and continued to ebb away through his neck. Big Guy's eyes were bloodshot.

"Lay down," I whispered and gave him a small smile. He did so.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked while checking the gun for ammunition.

"Seven…years," he gurgled painfully, almost silently.

"You've had a good run, my friend. You'll make a fine addition to the ranks of hell's demons," I told him softly. I meant what I said in the nicest way possible. A soft chuckle that resembled a wheeze ran from his lips and the bit of life within him twinkled through his eyes.

"This won't hurt," I whispered and shot through his temple. He died immediately. With a sigh I got up and swept my pants of any loose dirt. I looked around to assess my damage.

Gunman was shivering profusely on top of Scrawny's dead body. I hastily shot at the back of his skull and his movements ceased. I went up to him grabbed hold of the knife wedged in his wrist. I braced my leg on his back and the blade slid out in a chorus of grotesque squelching noises. I wiped some of the blood off on his shirt. I left the knives that were lodged in the lungs and the neck of the two cronies that presented themselves in the back of the group. I placed a gun in Boss's hand and one in Gunman's. I positioned the knife from Gunman's wrist in Scrawny's limp hand. After surveying my work to make sure I left no evidence behind I turned and walked off.

I slipped out of the alley and effortlessly blended in with the many other pedestrians waltzing through the streets of New York. Once again, I turned back into the unassuming stranger no one bothers to take a second glance at. I made it to the metro at a brisk walk and was back in Manhattan before anyone in Bronx even questioned where their infamous gang leader went off to.

My apartment was Downtown. It was a sorry little studio with years of water damage and the landlord even warned me that it was the scene of a murder. After flashing my fake ID, I told her I'd take it. I paid my rent for the first year up front with illegally acquired cash and stocked it up with the few belongings I possessed.

I took two steps at a time to the fifth floor. I fumbled through my pockets for the key and after a few minutes managed to cram it in the lock. I turned the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulder. It took a while for it to budge. Humidity made the door stick.

I slammed and locked the sticky door behind me; the day's events finally catching up to me in a wave of pure exhaustion. I flipped the light switch and the single bulb hanging off the ceiling by a wire flickered for a while before casting a hazy orange glow to the bulk of my place. I threw my jacket on the floor, ready to pass out on the pull-out couch that served as my bed. Then, I was assaulted by the last voice I wanted to hear.

"Good evening, Bella," the sound was a razor that cut through the borders of my sanity as it always has. I wanted to cry, hyperventilate, scream, kick, anything. My breath shuttered painfully in my chest as I resumed physical control.

_My breath shuttered painfully in my chest as I attempted to regain control. The tears were flowing without a pause down my face, dribbling down my chin and wetting the gag stuffed uncomfortably in my mouth. My hands were tied behind me, the restraints biting at my wrists. My legs were strapped to the chair's legs by layers of rope. By now, I have given up hope that struggling will save me. So I sat there, waiting._

_I knew my face must have been blotchy from crying and fear, my eyes reduced to puffed up redness. _I have to be brave_, I told myself. I had to be brave, but it was so hard. I turned my head up slightly and was met by the sight of my parents' mangled bodies. Bile rose up in my throat and wet the back of the cloth gagging me. I looked away again shamefully. I couldn't even look into my own mother's face; the thought hit me like a brick to the temple._

_I must have sat there for just over half an hour, though it felt like days in my five year old mind. The back of my neck was sticky with sweat and my long brown hair was sticking to my face in wet clumps. I sniffed back the drip falling from my nose and simply waited. I learned later that night in Phoenix, Arizona was particularly hot, almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Despite the fact, I was shivering uncontrollably from cold. _

_I don't know what I was waiting for. Perhaps I was waiting for the police to come get me and take me to Nana's. Maybe I was anticipating that at any moment my mommy and daddy would pop off of the ground looking good as new and kiss my tears away. I certainly hoped so. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to happen next._

_I jumped involuntarily as I heard the front door break down from where I was tied up in the kitchen. I heard shuffling footsteps and mutterings approaching. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew all hope was lost for me, but I still wished with all my might that it was the police._

"_Take a good look, Newton. This is only the beginning," a pleasantly feminine voice with a razor sharp edge pierced it's way through my clouded mind. It was the first time I heard her voice; the voice that haunts my being to this day._

_I looked down, naively reasoning that if I stay silent and still enough, they wouldn't notice I was there. I looked down and watched as a pair of black, heeled boots clicked past me towards my parents. The lady kneeled down and I examined her from the back. _

_She was wearing all black and had hair like caramel and old movies. A gloved finger reached out to my mother's mangled body and wiped off some blood. She brought it to her face and sniffed._

"_Drugged," she stated. I didn't know what that meant. When the lady stood up she seemed fifty feet tall. She still hadn't turned around, opting for examining her bloodied finger._

"_But Renee was one of the best! I don't believe she would have allowed herself to be drugged and…" a male voice rebuked, almost as if he were trying to convince himself._

"_Newton," the lady interrupted, "the death of the Dwyers can't be dwelled upon. As you may have noticed, there are more pressing matters at hand," the dark clad lady's voice reverberated through my ears. She turned around and I shut my eyes as tight as I could. My breathing became quicker and I felt lightheaded._

"_Hello," a wash of pure mint breath blew into my face, burning my nose. I opened my eyes and found myself staring into two identical yellow orbs. My gag was pulled out roughly by someone behind me. A cool object pressed against my hand briefly before my wrists were freed from their bonds. I brought my small hands together and rubbed at the deep red imprints. _

"_What's wrong with your eyes?" I blurted out, my curiosity overpowering my fright. The ropes around my legs came loose and I kicked them away. The lady smiled widely like the people from the toothpaste commercials. I remember thinking that she must have flossed often. Mommy told me that people who flossed had white teeth, which never really made sense to me but I never questioned it._

"_Birth defect," she answered simply in her unique voice._

"_What…is mommy going to be okay?" I licked my lips nervously. She opened her mouth a bit as if to answer. I noticed that her face was very pale and pretty like the girls in mommy's magazines, but her eyes were very creepy. The irises had a washed out gold look that was almost sickly, yet captivating. The lady seemed to decide against what she was going to say._

"_How would you like to live with me, Isabella?" she smiled kindly. I didn't want to, but it didn't seem as if I had any choice. Mommy told me never to talk to strangers, let alone go live with them. I had a feeling this woman was dangerous._

"_Bella," I whispered, defeated._

"_What?" she urged._

"_I prefer," I gulped, "to be called…Bella." The lady gave another toothy smile._

"_Perfect."_

"Esme," I acknowledged her coolly. I forced my memories to the back of my mind before they could get the better of me. I cursed my weakness.

Esme was leaning against a wall only a few feet away from me. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dim luminosity.

"Now, Bella is that any way to greet your mother? We haven't seen each other for over a year already," she came forward and enveloped me in a hug. I was stiff as a board. This was all just a grotesque façade. I knew that now. Esme was just checking that I didn't have any hidden weapons on me.

"Uh-uh, Bella," she pulled back with a Cheshire grin. I blanked. This couldn't be good.

She rubbed at the collar of my shirt, "You have evidence on you, clumsy girl." I pulled out from her grasp and looked down. There was a spot of blood on my shirt just above my collar bone. I looked back at Esme, my brows furrowed angrily.

"What do you want Esme?" I all but growled. She looked appalled.

"Oh Bella, my darling! I just wanted to see you, my daughter," she placed a hand on the chest of her spotless navy blue turtleneck.

"But now that you happened to mention it…" she examined her nails half heartedly and smirked my way. My eyes were slits of disapproval.

"If you're going to be cryptic just get the fuck out of my apartment Esme," I hissed. She looked around.

"This shack barely deserves to be called an apartment. Plus, you're underage, so it's barely even illegally yours. You know, my offer still stands. You should let us take care of you. Stick closer with our people and you'll be living much more comfortably," she looked at me from under her lashes. I knew Esme wanted me to rebuke and argue like I've always done, but I wouldn't let her win. I kept up my expressionless mask. She spoke again after a few seconds of my glaring.

"Fine," she muttered between her teeth and her motherly masquerade was over. She stared me down with her yellow eyes.

"The Feds are on our tails again. We're all relocating and this includes you. On that couch you'll find all you need to know to get you out of state and quietly on to your new identity. As of tomorrow, you are Bella Swan. Your parents are divorced and you wanted your mother to have time alone with her new husband, so you valiantly frolicked off to live with your daddy. Understood?" With that, Esme threw her dark jacket over her shoulder and departed.

I was left, silently fuming under the flickering light of the single light bulb. I marched further into the room and none too gently ripped the manila envelope from my couch. I quickly leafed through the contents seeing the usual fake IDs, paperwork and a hefty wad of Benjamins. There was a plane ticket scheduled for the next morning at ten to Forks, Washington.

I dunked down the glass of water sitting nearby, the liquid soothing the dry parch in my throat, and examined the final paper in the heap. It was a note:

_Dearest Bella,_

**BURN THIS AFTER READING**

_Stick to the story. Charlie Swan is the chief of police, you are to be his daughter. Never volunteer information. Don't miss your flight. Follow standard modus operandi. Lay low and no killing. Keep an eye out._

_Love, mother_

_P.S. You are enrolled in Forks High School. __Do not kill any of the students__._

I huffed indignantly. Esme was sending me off to school. She's never done that before. I taught myself basically all I had to know academically and the witch knew that. I pondered on the letter while grabbing at a box of matches from somewhere nearby. My head was spinning a bit, but I brushed it off as mild fatigue.

She seemed to accentuate the fact I wasn't to kill, I decided. Usually, it didn't matter to her so much as long as I wasn't messy and destroyed all evidence. She also told me to lay low. This all suggested we were in more jeopardy than Esme let on.

What bothered me was to "keep an eye out". For what? A pulsing ache hit my temple and my eyes felt sticky and had a hard time staying open. Was there another reason Esme was sending me to Washington, not just to wait out whatever this threat was? I seriously doubted it was the FBI. Esme never made too big a deal out of them.

I made my way groggily over to the second room in the whole apartment: the bathroom. I propped open the grimy toilet seat and let the letter float down into the bowl. I lit a match and dropped it in as well. I watched the paper burn for a while, inhaling the thick scent of smolder, mixed with the smell of cool linoleum and toilet water. The flame ate up the note bit by bit, first charring the edges to a rich brown then turning them to ash.

Sometimes, I felt like that piece of paper. Slowly scorching from inside out, as if every life I took added to the power of the flame eating away at my life. I flushed the remnants, suddenly disgusted and unable to take anymore.

I vigorously rubbed at my eyes, trying to keep sleep at bay at least until I made it to the couch. I flopped down, not bothering to take my clothes off. I dove into unconsciousness just before my head reached the lumpy, scratched up cot which I hailed as my bed.

I was well aware that my life was messed up. I was mentally scarred and unstable. My physical being was covered in disfigurements, indications of my survival throughout the years. It was crazy, but in the end, it was how I chose to live. My name was originally Isabella Marie Dwyer. I have grown infamous amongst the underground, silently prowling, doing Esme's dirty work. The toughest bastards on this planet have learned to fear me; the greatest minds learned to be wary of me.

I have been all around the world, have witnessed some of the greatest gifts this life has to offer. I have seen the true nature of humanity in the rawest form of evil. Some refuse to acknowledge me out of fright to the point that my name is a curse to be muttered, I a myth to be dreaded, until I allow my presence to be known. I am a danger because I see through the pretty illusions other's fall for. I am a threat because I have absolutely nothing to lose.

My story is not for the fainthearted. Neither is it advisable for any of those who deem harsh judgment upon the misunderstood. Be aware that though I may not be anywhere near perfect, none of us are. Everyone has secrets. Everyone has a clandestine place where they are not what they seem. There are many out there that won't ever understand why I chose to live the way I have; how I could possibly give up my own identity and life for a dismal cause when I lost all hope.

The minute I woke up tomorrow, I would become Isabella Swan.

For those who wish to continue, welcome to my world.

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**It's me again! Here to say that I would really appreciate some feedback. I understand that if you have reviewed to "chapter 1" before you can't do it again, but I would be extremely grateful if one of my original reviewers would take a few minutes to tell me if they enjoyed the new version of this chapter through a PM. I won't be offended if you don't though.**

**And NEW readers! (You are here…aren't you…?) If you review, I will give you a "Get out of Jail Free" card as an honorary icon of your joining my asylum!**

**Macho Soup for your Soul**** (MSFYS): If the square root of negative one is an imaginary number, and that multiplied by itself is negative one, and a negative times a negative is a positive….does that mean when three imaginary cookies multiply, they will become one real cookie? Concentrate…concentrate…**


	2. Welcome to Forks

**Here I am! I would like to remind everyone who hasn't gotten the notification that this story is being rewritten and it is in your best interest to reread the first chapter if you haven't done so already. The way to know if you have is: if you have read more than two chapters of this story and you are seeing this message for the first time then you probably haven't read the first redone chapter.**

**Thank you to my beta baysidebird, I think you're on vacation or something which is why this chapter isn't beta'ed, and bubblyamericanwriter1 for being my vice beta and listening to my qualms about the story. I really appreciate it.**

**I** **would also like to thank alicecullen51089 for reviewing** **thus encouraging me to post this chapter which has not been beta'ed. Without further ado, I would like to welcome all of my faithful crazies of the asylum, to Forks.**

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_The world is a dangerous place. Not because of the people who are evil; but because of the people who don't do anything about it. ~Albert Einstein_

I woke up the next morning with an excruciating headache and a mouth like cotton. I smacked my lips together in a pathetic attempt at hydrating my sore lips. I swallowed and shuddered as hot air burned down my throat rather than saliva. There was way too much light in the room, I found myself thinking. Logically I knew that couldn't be because other than the small window bringing in the gray light of early morning, there was no significant source of brightness.

My eyes squinted open to slits and burned with tears as I perceived the offending daylight. I moaned lightly and the simple sound seemed to burst its way through my eardrums like a marching band. My head felt ready to split in half. The agony was unbearable and kept me from thinking straight.

With as much effort as I could muster, I dragged the jagged fingernails of my thumb and index finger to my arm and pinched firmly at an expanse of loose skin. The sudden sting of pain traveled up through my nervous system and cleared the fog from my brain momentarily. Water, I thought. Water will help, the primal instinct within me took over and I hurriedly stumbled the few feet from my couch to the dirty sink sticking out along the wall.

My head spun. With a low hiss I stubbed my toe on the edge of the cooler that served as my fridge. I stubbornly ignored the distraction and persisted on my mission. I turned the knob, attempting to disregard the frantic pounding in my skull. A yellowish stream of liquid ran from the faucet. I impatiently waited for it to clear enough that it resembled drinkable water. There was a collection of drowned bugs clogging the drain and speckling the basin.

When I was fairly certain a drink wouldn't kill me, I leaned down and lapped at the cool wetness desperately. The steady torrent of water was practically choking me and had a powdery texture to it. I gulped down all I could. After a few more seconds, the water was running down my face and I was gasping for breath. I attempted a few more tentative licks then pulled back, grazing my head against the tap, adding yet another tingle to my assemblage of pain.

I shut my eyes tight and braced myself with both hands on the sink's ledge. I leaned forward slowly until my forehead met with the chill surface of a chipped wall. I could feel the frantic beating of my heart through my throbbing head, injured toe and all my pressure points. I waited for my breathing to steady. Drops of water trickled down my nose and chin noiselessly. The pain throbbing throughout my body slowly subsided to a dull ache.

"Ow," I whimpered pathetically.

My eyes ripped open; an epiphany burst forth through my mangled form. I spun my head slowly to the right. There, on the small coffee table, sat a lone clear glass that was previously filled approximately half way with a plain liquid I had assumed was pure water. I gulped, hoping my suspicions wouldn't be proven correct.

Shaking, I shuffled back over to the couch and leaned down with my knees to the floor, staring down the aberrant chalice marring the otherwise empty surface of my coffee table. The grimy couch a bit further in front seemed to stare at me, daring me to make a false move. A hand slid over the flat surface and gingerly grasped the cup. I scraped it over to my face. My nostrils flared as I sniffed, inhaling deeply.

A subtle, yet identifiable sickly sweet smell hit my sensory glands; a drug, I recognized. My brows furrowed angrily and my shaking resumed full force. With an agitated grunt I threw the cup at a wall across from me and watched it shatter and plummet to the floor in a shower of reflective crystal.

I was clenching my teeth and my hands were balled into tight fists, the skin of my knuckles stretched impossibly white. A nerve just below my left eye began to yank compulsively. I started to generate disconcerted moans and grunts through my pursed lips.

"Fuck you to hell, you fucking bitch," I growled and got up, knocking over the immaculate coffee table with my knee, breaking one of its legs in the process. I couldn't care less. I grabbed a few shirts, pair of sweatpants, pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from wherever they were strewn on the floorboards. I batted away a cockroach from inside one of the habiliments absentmindedly. It scurried off.

I stuffed the clothes and a few assorted weapons into a time-worn backpack. Lastly, I picked up the manila folder containing, to put it bluntly, my keys to survival while switching identities. I took out some of the bills and stuffed them in the pocket of the pair of soiled sweatpants I had on. I honestly couldn't tell you the last time I went to a Laundromat. The rest of the money went into the bag.

I switched all of my ID's to Isabella Swan's, finding that all of my Marie Higginbotham ones were gone. I knew they have been properly disposed of. I checked myself over to make sure my artillery was still tucked in its place. Once satisfied, I threw the backpack's strap over my shoulder and left my home of the last one and half years. I didn't look back.

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Approximately one month from that day, the landlady, Mrs. Dubose, will come to pay Marie a visit because the rent was long overdue. She will knock on the door for five whole minutes. She will call Marie's name anxiously, worrying when no answer comes her way. She has been sending the occupant of 5C mail notifications for a while now with no answer. When she asks the neighbors, they will say they haven't seen the girl or even heard any signs of life through the flimsy apartment walls in a long time.

Mrs. Dubose will turn suspicious. Was Marie avoiding paying her rent? The landlady, in a last desperate attempt will open my old mailbox with a master key she hasn't used in years. She was worried what she would find there. A note explaining Marie's disappearance perhaps, she will think, or more likely, it will be stuffed with unopened mail. That would mean Marie ran off somewhere, Mrs. Dubose will reason, in which case she isn't my problem anymore.

She will turn the lock and lick at her thin lips nervously. She will look in and freeze when there isn't a single letter in mailbox 5C. The lady will run back up the steps to Marie's room, and open the door. A mouse will scamper past the elderly woman's feet in fright. When she looks around, her confusion will amplify.

The small room barely changed since Mrs. Dubose first rented it out to the girl named Marie almost two years before. The girl looked no older than fourteen, but had an ID on her claiming her adulthood. The apartment complex had a bad reputation and Mrs. Dubose, desperate for money, accepted Marie's offering in rent, in return, disregarding Miss Higginbotham's discernibly adolescent age.

An uncomfortable looking gray couch dominated the center of the room. The small coffee table, once standing as the proudest monument in the residence, was turned over on its side. A slab of broken, splintered wood hung off in place of one of the legs. Mrs. Dubose will place a hand on her heart and walk forward slowly, unwilling to fathom what may have occurred.

A soft crunch beneath her shoe will snap the lady out of her musing. She will step back instinctively and look down at the broken shards of glass beneath her feet. Her eyes will automatically sweep towards the entrance to the bathroom, the door slightly ajar. She will pray that she won't find yet another dead body in there. When she checks, she will sigh happily, noting that no murders have been committed as far as she could tell.

Mrs. Dubose will turn to leave, still ill at ease and very apprehensive. The last thing she will see will be the light reflected off one of the glass shards destroyed against the wall. A barely discernable, elegant cursive letter "E", engraved within that one fragment, will blink in her eye just before the tip of a sharp object burns through her chest. Mrs. Dubose's eyes will drift closed, never to see again.

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One train, two buses, a taxi, and an hour later, I was boarding the 10 AM plane to Washington State. The flight was delayed for two hours, which worked to my convenience as I only made it to the airport at ten till eleven. My carry on item was my luggage, which honestly only consisted of the few belongings I stuffed into the backpack back at my old apartment. I'm not permitted to tell how I made it past airline security but I can say it was not a comfortable time.

I sat stiffly in the stuffy confines of the plane, knowing full well that with the ammunition I possessed I could blow the thing from the sky in mere seconds. A snoring man was seated beside me, drool frothing at the corner of his mouth. A service lady was walking along the isle with a large fake smile plastered to her face.

"Would you be needing anything, miss?" She asked politely over the sleeping figure. Annoyance for her job was obvious in the gleam of her violet eyes. I glared at the blonde, not saying a word. She stared back but her smile seemed to twitch slightly at one corner. Her manicured hands fisted but released almost as quickly. She straightened up and swept the skirt of her flawless navy blue uniform as if my staring dirtied it.

"Have a nice flight," she excused herself through her teeth. My eyebrows rose suggestively and she stomped off with airs. A single strand of yellow hair fell out of her bun, I noticed. That gave me a burning sense of pleasure. She obviously thought herself a strong woman and I managed to frazzle her.

The rest of the flight went by without further interruption. At some point, the man beside me woke up and attempted to strike a conversation. I pretended not to hear him. Eventually he became too embarrassed to continue and ignored me for the remaining duration of the trip. It was insanely boring, but it was safe. I have learned to appreciate moments of peace for they were few and far between for people like me.

A few hours into the voyage, my eyes drifted closed. At such high altitudes, I could almost pretend that nothing existed; that I had no troubles or worries, simply floating up in the sky. In a place where there was no Esme, no law enforcement, no killing, no constant movement from fear of being discovered. A nice, safe, warm place to sleep, a home, a family…

I was floating in the air, flying like a bird. All of my qualms and fears stared up at me and I laughed as they got further and further away. I floated to a place I felt was happy, goodness was radiating from it. I slipped through, and I felt warmth. I was finally safe. Just one more step and I'd be in for good.

Instead of going forward, I was being pulled backward, toward an abyss. I screamed but no sound came out. I screamed for help, but no one heard. No one came and I continued floating in the wrong direction.

"Bella?" I heard a soft, affectionate voice from the happiness ask. It was unmistakable. I knew who it was and I was getting farther from it by the second.

"No!" I screeched, but still not a sound came out. I needed to go back, I had to go back! Blurry, dark figures were all around me, smothering me. All I could think was why they wouldn't let me go.

"You didn't let us go," they whispered in unison, answering my thoughts. I started bawling my eyes out, still silently.

"You didn't let us go," the figures whispered at me again, but it seemed so loud it hurt.

"You didn't let us go!" They advanced and suddenly my eyes popped open. I was still on the plane. A single tear cascaded down my cheek and I intercepted it with a finger. I lifted it, staring at the wetness as if it were a dear friend who betrayed my trust.

"We are approaching Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle, Washington. Please fasten your seatbelts for the landing. Thank you for flying with us," a scratchy female voice informed the passengers through the speaker system. The announcement followed a series of yawns, grunts and creaking of seats as the travelers did as they were told. I followed suit.

The plane landed finally after more than eight hours of arduous, melancholy flight. I needed to use the bathroom really badly and I was hungry, as I refused to eat airline food. Not to mention my legs were wobbly from sitting in one place for too long. I followed the line of people shuffling from the plane, thinking how to get where I needed to be. It was highly unlikely I would get an escort to that Forks place.

I blended into the sea of passengers scanning the crowds for friends and family members, trying to stay invisible.

"Lucy! Ah, baby I missed you so much! Come here!" A woman with laugh lines beckoned to a girl a few years older than I was. I looked back unobtrusively, at who I assumed was Lucy. The girl rolled her eyes, and trudged her luggage as she waltzed over to be enveloped in a bone crushing hug by the woman.

"Hey ma', so what's…" That's all I heard before I pushed past the reunion sooner than I could dwell on the scene. I blinked furiously, pulling back the burn in my eyes. That didn't stop the thoughts.

What if that was me in Lucy's place? She took it all for granted; I could see it in her eyes. I wouldn't. What I wouldn't give to be her. No, I chided myself. I need a taxi. A taxi would take me to Forks; from there I could poke around and see where the chief of police lived.

My pathetic attempt at distracting myself pathetically worked. I put all my being into finding a way to get to Charlie Swan. My demons lay tucked away at the back of my mind for now. Sure I'd face them sometime. Though hopefully not anytime soon.

I looked around for an exit above the bustling heads of the travelers. That was when I spotted the sign. It was a simple white piece of paper held up by two rough hands. On it was written the name "Bella Swan".

I bit my lip. Sadly enough, the sign already made this person the nicest guardian Esme ever appointed me. None of the others bothered to greet me or help me get to their homes. They didn't even bother getting someone else to do it, preferring to simply leave me to my own means. I walked closer.

The man with the sign was probably Chief Swan. He had a police uniform on and a thick handlebar moustache accentuating an ascetic face, other than his eyes. The man's eyes were brown and soft. They didn't match his otherwise severe appearance. The chief had wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. He was looking around and shuffling his feet. I approached.

"Uh, hey," I mumbled, looking down. I wasn't good at conversing with people who didn't mean me harm. This man, despite his job and connections to the criminal underground, was obviously passive at heart. I didn't bring my guard down, not for a minute, but I didn't sense him to be an immediate threat. Plus I still had to pee.

"You're Bella?" He asked in a gruff voice, that wasn't unkind but sounded as nervous as I secretly felt inside.

"Uh, yeah," my hair was covering most of my face and I looked anywhere but at the police chief. We stood in an unsure silence for a while before he scratched at his receding brown curls and spoke.

"So the car's this way. Police cruiser," he explained, "hope you don't mind."

"Nah its fine," I gulped. I had to watch my step. These were new waters I was treading. One false move could land me in a superfluous situation. The man walking beside me made me nervous. Not in a bad way, but an unfamiliar one.

Charlie Swan opened the passenger door of the police car and invited me in with a grunt and a small wave. The car was a typical black and white with "Forks Police" written on the side in bold script. There was even a red and blue tinged beacon resting on the top of the vehicle. I flopped myself down and slammed the door behind me. Charlie entered through the other side a few seconds later.

We sat in silence as he drove through Seattle. Night was falling and the deep, pastel colors of the twilight sky enveloped us on the street. A few stars were visible on the far end of the horizon.

It didn't escape my notice the irony of my situation. There I was, one of the worlds most wanted and still yet to be identified criminals, sitting in a squad car of my own accord. My lip curved up slightly at the humor.

"So, police chief, huh? Shouldn't you have a…respect for the law?" I asked in my self-assured voice. I was herding the man for information. In my mind, he was no longer Charlie and I no longer Bella. He was a potential threat and I a survivor.

"Uh, well," he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "yeah. But I believe in what Esme is doing. Her people are like the police inside criminal society. I may not agree with all her methods, but he heart is in the right place." Swan attempted to explain this to me. I huffed.

"Her heart? There's a freaking black hole were that's supposed to be," I reproached. He gritted his teeth nervously. I was the only one among the organization who could get away with talking bad about the bitch. Esme found me too valuable to loose and no one reprimands the leader's little girl.

"Is she threatening your family or something?" I inquired, attempting to receive some background of this person.

"Err, no. Uh, no family," he answered curtly. I stayed silent for a while after that. Has he never had a family or did he loose them, like I did?

"Why do you call me Bella?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. Swan fidgeted again.

"Well she told me you prefer Bella, unless you like Isabella?" He asked uncertainly with a bit of fright laced in. I needed no confirmation as to who "she" was.

"Nah, I like Bella, chief." I waved it off. Was he scared because he knew or at least guessed at the true profundity of my past deeds? It gave me a feeling of security that he was scared, but I didn't want the only reason of his kindness to be out of fear. I had many more questions for the man, but I had to bide my time if I wasn't to scare him off. He coughed.

"You can call me Charlie," he stated. I risked a small smile his way and nodded. With that, I assumed my socially awkward persona. Fortunately, Charlie didn't feel the need to fill the silence with senseless chatter. I took this time to further observe my surroundings.

A light drizzle and a coat of mist covered the strange new world I was becoming a part of. Everything was green. Trees were everywhere and even their bark was enclosed in swathes of moss. Grass erupted through cracks in the pavement. Dark clouds hung over our heads and there was barely a soul to be seen. Despite the occasional passing car, there was a feeling of complete isolation to the place. I could see why Esme decided to send me here; into a bubble of separation from the rest of the world.

"Alright Bella," Charlie grinned my way, "welcome to Forks."

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**So¸ what did you think? Once again, if you reviewed to the old chapter 2, you can't do so again but I would appreciate a quick PM on how I did. New members of the asylum: Welcome! Admittance is free and remember: if you must be insane, why not criminally insane? Review and feed my ego!**

**MSFYS: What is time but a skewered view of celestial orbit?**


	3. Welcome to My Own Personal Hell

**A/N:**

**Chapter: Welcome to my Own Personal Hell or Welcome to the part where I make small talk With Charlie Swan**

**Dedicated to: booklover51089. Thanks for caring even though I don't deserve it.**

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_Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer. ~Oscar Wilde_

Esme had assembled an extremely severe training program for anyone wishing to join, or being forced into, her organization. First, she whispers of fine musings and great power into the next victim to her conformity. When he's reeled in, Esme makes promises she in truth couldn't be bothered to keep. These marvels buzz around the victim's head, tempting him into submissive. He agrees to Esme's demands and she in return makes the victim feel special, wanted. Then she throws him into a relegation that he's unlikely to survive.

I was residing with Esme somewhere in the Midwest United States barely three months after my parents' deaths. I was changed after the trauma, no longer myself. I lost all significance of what was once "Bella", even the promise of who I might have been. My thoughts were constantly filled with violence, anger, vengeance; all things too inappropriate to surge through a five year old mind. I wanted to kill, to destroy, for I have seen what that entailed.

Mommy once told me to treat others as I would like to be treated. I applied that saying to the killers. Who but me had the authority to treat them to their rightful fates? No one else survived that horrible night to see exactly what they had done, but me. When I found them I would be the one cutting out the entrails and stuffing them back down the owner's throats. I would show the killers what it feels like to be on the receiving end of lethal anguish.

These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as, smiling, I ripped the limbs from a doll I found in Esme's house. I snapped a plastic arm in half and bent the neck to unnatural angles until it popped off. I scratched at the material with stubby, bitten nails until gashes formed. This was how Esme found me that day. I didn't even look up as she approached; I had grown used to the sound of clinking heels announcing her attendance.

Esme had recently made a habit of walking into whichever room I was in, staring at me for a while, and then leaving. That day was different. She stayed longer and just before she turned to leave, displayed my forbidden fruit, my desire. I dropped the distorted doll and stared up in hunger.

_So I said, "How?" Esme smiled her creepy smile. It should have scared me, made me turn and run the other way and never look back, but my sight was obscured by the prospects of the suggestion. The witch crouched down in front of me and stared with her golden eyes._

"_It's very simple Bella, I'll give you what you want, no problem. All you have to do," she poked the tip of my nose with a gloved finger. I batted it away angrily. Her smile faltered and she flexed her hand before placing it on her lap and continuing._

"_All you have to do is be my daughter," her lips turned upward once more, displaying her perfect white, flossed teeth. My brow furrowed in confusion._

"_But, I can't," I proclaimed with a small child's one track mind, "that would make you my mommy but I already had a mommy and can't have another one." Esme's eyes widened briefly showing less than a second of doubt before they returned to their normal, soulless, yellow selves._

"_But you can, I'll be your new mommy," she cooed in a baby voice that I felt insulted my intelligence, but I kept calm anyway; as calm as I could manage. _

_I let out a frustrated sigh before I commenced to explain, "You can't be mommy. A baby comes out of her mommy's tummy. I came out of my mommy's tummy not yours." I felt proud as I displayed the information daddy presented to me when I asked him where babies came from. I assumed Esme's disability to discern my point was derived from a lack of knowledge on the subject. I didn't expect her reaction._

_Esme's teeth clenched, her lower lip trembled slightly and her eyes burned with anger. She stood up, towering over me, glaring down with hatred. I was truly scared for my life. I suddenly remembered something mommy said once; I wished she were here so I could tell her I understood. If looks could kill…well, I thought, I would be seeing mommy soon anyway._

_ Esme turned her back to me. I hoped she would leave. Instead, she addressed me in an ice cold voice, "Bella, if you won't be my daughter I won't help you kill your parent's murderers." _

_Her words echoed through the brightly lit, white room. I remained quiet, torn. I didn't know what I should do. My entire being was against my decision and I couldn't bring myself to say it. I could hear Esme's agitated breathing._

"_Alright then, good bye Bella," she said with a formality. Her heeled boots clanked away and I realized what she meant, that her words held a double meaning. Once you're in this world, there is no way out. If you try to run, it will find you. There was no escape but one. It was to do or die. I certainly couldn't avenge my mommy if I were dead._

"_Wait," I whispered, "Wait!" I scampered up and Esme stopped. Even though I couldn't see her face, I could see the agitation melt away, replaced by something much, much darker._

"_Fine, okay, I'll do it," I told her, defeated. I felt tears well up but wouldn't let them fall. Esme turned her head and raised one eyebrow. The smile was back. With that, she walked off._

"_But I'll always know who my real mommy is, Esme!" I yelled after her. I scurried away and huddled in a corner. That was the first time I've ever stood up to any adult, let along a wholly dangerous one. That was also the first time I've called my witch captor "Esme". It was also the first time I began to think of mommy as Renee._

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In Charlie's cruiser, I didn't need to pee anymore. He kept shooting suspicious glances in my direction.

"Got something to say?" I dared. He turned back to the road sheepishly. I shifted a bit in my seat to get more comfortable.

We had officially reached Forks, Washington according to a sign that whizzed by earlier. Forks had virtually no defining characteristics apart from the rest of the Olympic Peninsula. We were still surrounded by green, still enveloped in sheets of rain and dark clouds. I rested my forehead on the cool car window, watching the occasional house or thrift store flash by.

I could still feel Charlie's gaze shifting toward me but I shrugged it off, preferring to just stare blankly at the passing trees rather than acknowledge it. I could hear rain splashing on the roof of the car, the old tires squelching through puddles of mud. The windshield wipers squeaked against the glass, thunked at the lowest point of the circuit, and squeaked back up repeatedly, monotonously.

_Thunk._

_ Squ-eeeak…_

_ Splash._

_ Thunk._

_ Squ-eeeak…_

"Here we are," Charlie announced, pulling into a dirt driveway, "it isn't much but it's home." He parked beside a rusty red pick-up truck.

"Looks like it can sustain life, so it's good enough for me," I shrugged off his comment. I grabbed my backpack from where it rested between my legs as Charlie cut the ignition. We got out of the car and into the rain which by now slowed from a downpour to a drizzle. I would be lying if I said the ominous feel of Forks didn't get to me. Each drop of rain on my face felt like a dagger, cold and untrusting. The dark skies were unsure whether they were to protect me or smother me. The depths of the surrounding forests reached out, wanting to greet me, or perhaps engulf me and eradicate the newest threat to the steady balance of life they have been maintaining for centuries.

Charlie looked nervous. He fumbled with his keys, muttering quick apologies at me. It didn't escape my notice how his hand shook slightly just before he firmly grasped the doorknob. There was a second of hesitation before he opened the door and we entered his house. As the chief gave the grand tour, my mind was creating blueprints of my most recent abode.

The house was roughly a thousand square feet, two bedrooms, one bath and two stories high. There was a small, square entrance way with a few hooks for hanging coats and a few pairs of shoes lining the wall. Immediately in front was a stairway. To the left was a living room complete with a few empty bottles of beer, a well used couch facing a bulky television, and knick-knacks in desperate need of a good dusting. Just beyond that lay a small kitchen. The refrigerator contained enough fish that, if rationed properly, could potentially sustain an average family of four for a year. Some more bottles of beer were stored there along with a quarter gallon of expired milk and an empty ketchup container. An insignificant, rarely used, and might I add suspiciously drafty, dining room branched off from the kitchen.

I suspected that the old staircase could hold no more than the weight of one person at a time. However, it remained fairly stable while I ascended. The first door I came across on the upper level lead to the restroom, which was directly beside the linen closet. On the opposite side was Charlie's bedroom and my room branched off slightly from the main hallway.

"It's purple, I hope you don't mind," Charlie apologized when he showed me my room. It was the size of half my old apartment. The walls were painted lilac and the curtains, sheets and pillows were all differing shades of violet.

"Thank you, Swan," I addressed him in a detached voice. I would have liked to show my appreciation for all he has done, and all he had yet to go through by taking in a lunatic criminal, but I was so far gone I didn't know how. Charlie huffed in response, shuffled from foot to foot and left. I walked into the room, locked the door and went straight to work.

I checked the closet first. It was empty except for a unisex raincoat neatly folded in a corner. Then under the bed, between the sheets and the mattress were apparently safe. There was an ancient, hulking computer on the desk which I immediately unplugged. It wouldn't be of any use to me either way. I searched behind the desk for any holes, or abnormalities and found none. I quickly opened the drawers of the cabinet beside the bed; nothing. I crawled around the floor, picking at the wooden boards but none of them came loose.

I unzipped the front pocket of my backpack and took out a metal transmission receptor to locate and disconnect any unnecessary broadcasts that come my way. I turned it on and waved it around the room, satisfied when it showed no significant source of electromagnetic activity nearby. Esme had me acquire one of those after my almost being chipped in Italy the previous year--because mistakes were unacceptable.

The deep purple curtains were thick and closed. I shook them a bit and no dust came out. Either Charlie cleaned the room for this special occasion or someone recently inhabited here. I pulled back one side of the fabric and was met by the sight of an old window. It probably hadn't been opened in years. I furrowed my brows at the tree just outside the glass. It would be dreadfully simple to climb. I made a mental note to keep the curtains and the window shut for the duration of my stay. Perhaps even go as far as to nail it shut.

Nonetheless, I officially declared the area secure in my head.

I dug back into my bag to take out some more of my things. I placed a switchblade under the bed's pillow, a medium sized ax under the bed and a dirty-bomb in the closet. I took out my other pair of sweats and shirt and placed them over the explosive. Finally, I pushed the backpack under the bed and looked around the room satisfied. It looked just as it was before I moved in.

After one more apprehensive glance, I went downstairs to Charlie.

"So, do you have any money?" I asked bluntly. Charlie froze. He was watching a baseball game on the television. He turned to me.

"Um, I…what for?" He mumbled.

"I need cash for groceries," I answered. I thought I could show my thanks to the Chief by providing him with decent meals every once in a while, but the money I had with me was not meant for inconsequential things like food while I was comfortably in hiding. Charlie obviously relaxed.

"Oh, well there's the money on top of the fridge," he gestured toward the kitchen. True to his word, there was a jar filled with bills labeled "Food Money" in its specified vicinity. I wasn't surprised to see it practically full.

"Wait," Charlie stood up and held out a key ring, "I want you to have this. It's for the truck outside. I mean, you don't have a car and well, it's a way to get where you need to be--"

"Swan," I cut him off in the middle of what was sure to be a long, rambling speech on the necessity transport in suburban society, "this is unnecessary." I glared him down even though another part of me screamed for me to take what I could; it's not every day someone will hand over something of so valuable, so willingly. I licked my lips and grabbed it out of his hands. I tossed the keys back and forth a few times and Charlie smiled.

"My friend Billy, from the reservation, gave this to me for free. Since he lost his legs, it isn't much use to him," he explained. I smirked and turned to leave. A thought suddenly came to Charlie.

"You do have a license? Right?" His police training and the unspoken rules he obliged to with me clashed.

"It's fake, but I can drive," I smirked. Charlie looked conflicted and was about to say something but I left before he had the chance. I walked once around the truck, admiring its strength. It was so old, but managed to survive all these years and serve its master; continue doing what it was meant to do.

I jumped into the driver's side and caressed the wheel. There was a faint smell of cigars, leather, air freshener, and cologne lingering in the air. It smelled like the sit-downs Esme had with her employees. Just before someone got shot, all of your senses would rise to the sky and you could smell the room like it was all under your nose. Then, the rust and salt smell of blood and the stale stench of death would clog your nostrils. It was a comforting smell, like home.

I stuffed the key into the ignition and turned. The engine sputtered and wheezed to a start. The wheel and seat beneath me vibrated from the force. I pulled out of the driveway. I was not exactly sure where I was going, but I figured in such a small town, everything must be just off the main road.

I found a convenience store called Newton's. The name was vaguely familiar. Perhaps a Newton works for Esme, I thought. I could ask Charlie. A bored teenager with too many piercings chomped gum at the cash register. She had short, black hair and a vacant expression. Of course, it was Sunday. Her friends were probably out having a great time and she was stuck at work. She looked me up and down scornfully when I came up to her with groceries. The girl beeped them up and dismissed me with an indifferent "have a nice day". I just maintained my expressionless mask and nodded in response.

From the corner of my eye I saw her take out a phone and start punching in characters. I stiffened and sped up my pace. I was disgusted with myself, reduced to such pathetic measures. I was too suspicious of everyone and everything. This time should be spent relaxing, I told myself, not suspecting adolescents of illicit activity beyond their mental capacities.

I hauled the bag of merchandise into the passenger seat of my truck with a huff. The rain started up again. I realized, too late, that I should keep an umbrella, or at least a jacket, with me at all times in this climate. Catching a cold would suck some major ass with my lifestyle.

Charlie stayed right where I left him, eyes glued to the television as an over-excited balding man gestured wildly across the screen. After quickly observing for abnormalities, I slipped past him into the kitchen with my (legally) acquired produce. With the rations I had at hand, I decided to make some Linguine a la Volterra; a delicious dish which, unlike revenge, is best served warm and made with love--as Marcus told me. I heard Charlie stiffen in the other room, the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety unlatching reached my ears. I kept at my work, stirring the boiling pot of spaghetti with one hand and reaching for my own gun with the other.

Without looking back I could tell it was Charlie rushing into the kitchen. I heard him breathe a sigh of relief and put down the weapon.

"Bella, I err…wasn't expecting you, I was um…sorry," he mumbled.

"As the chief of police your senses should be alert at all times, Swan. I wasn't even trying to be discreet. If I were an enemy you would be in some deep shit right about now," I cocked my eyebrow at him. I could tell I hurt his manly pride.

Charlie puffed out his chest and began, "Now wait a minute. That may not necessarily be the…" I pulled out my gun and placed it against his temple with the fluid motions of many years' practice. My face held absolutely no humor. Charlie gulped; his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"…and just like that," I whispered, "You're dead." I whipped the semi-auto back into the holster hidden under my sweatshirt. I turned and dimmed down the burner's flame. I could feel Charlie standing behind me uncomfortably. We stayed silent as I bustled around the kitchen.

"So," the chief harrumphed, "what is that you're making?" I smiled.

"I learned it while I was in Italy last year," I gave him a glance. Charlie looked politely interested.

"Wow. You've probably been around the world, huh? I've never been further east than Albuquerque," he continued the small talk.

"Well, I don't really get much time for sight-seeing. Whenever I go anywhere it's on business," I left it at that as I shook out the pasta into a drainer. Stream rose up, clouding the room before dispersing. I separated the spaghetti onto two plates and splattered on the special sauce mix that added "voila to Volterra" (another quote from Marcus, I swear). I handed one to Charlie, along with a fork, and we shuffled into the living room. A look of pleasant surprise crossed his features as Swan took the first, albeit hesitant, bite.

"It's delicious Bella," he complimented. A heat I usually only experienced in the midst of exhaustion rose up to my cheeks. I was appalled at myself. Charlie inhaled a few more mouthfuls, "Who did you say taught you how to make this?"

_None of your freaking business, that's who_, I replied in my head. After a second's thought, I decided it would be more beneficial to scare him a bit. Let him know I wasn't to be messed with.

"Have you heard of the Volturi?" I asked sweetly. Swan stopped stuffing his face and gulped.

"That uh, Italian mafia?" His eyes got round. He knew where this was heading. My smile put shame to the Cheshire cat.

"That's the one," Oh granny, what big teeth I have. Intimidation: I knew it down to a science. This, I was good at. It was my zone. I calmly twirled the long strands of red pasta around my fork. It wasn't that I had anything against Swan; I just needed to feel comfortable. This day was so out of whack I literally _needed_ some normalcy.

Charlie's eyes glimmered with fright, confusion and then hopelessness. I sighed and wiped at invisible sauce on the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. I blamed my newfound softness on the crazy day. Pathetic excuse, but I bought it.

"I didn't add in the rat poison though," I mumbled. He breathed out in relief.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that," Swan's brow furrowed. We didn't say another word to each other for the rest of the evening.

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My surroundings were too unfamiliar. It made me jumpy, extra sensitive. As I lay in bed that night, every drop of rain that hit the roof was like a grenade exploding in my head. The sound of trees swaying in the wind was the feds, finally caught up to me. The blade under my pillow cut into my head. I wanted some quiet. I wanted some peace. I wanted to be able to rest easy again. I wanted to individually welcome every son of a bitch who helped mess up my life into the pits of my own personal hell. I wanted my mommy.

Just before I succumbed to unconsciousness I mused, as always, on what it would be like if I simply didn't wake up. The smallest smile graced my lips as thunder rumbled in the distance.

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**Right…well…what do I have to say for myself? Absolutely nothing. I have no excuse. I was just being my lazy old self. This chapter is not beta'ed because I felt I kept you waiting long enough—if anyone is still there. Review? Maybe…? Possibly….?**

**MSFYS: Where is a toilet when you need one?**


	4. Welcome to High School

**What's this? A chapter's finally here….what's this? What's this!**

**You're awesome if you get the reference, I'm just saying.**

**What are you waiting for? Read you beautiful person! This chapter is why this story is in the "humor" category. At least, I think it's funny.**

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_Between the great things we cannot do and the small things we will not do, the danger is that we shall do nothing.__ ~Adolph Monod_

My blood burned as I stared into the gray eyes of the adversary. I wanted to feel the satisfying crunch of a jaw giving as my fist connected with his face. I wanted to knee him in the gut because more than likely, he had had too many drinks and I could potentially cause some irreversible damage to his already mutilated liver. I wanted to stab him in the eye because its nerves connect to so many different areas of the brain. I wanted to then proceed to slash at him with that same blade. I wanted Michael Newton to hurt for his arrogance, ignorance, and most of all his disrespect toward me.

However, despite how much I wanted, I first had to abide to what was expected of me. Specifically: do not kill any of the students. Following my original plan, the boy would have probably not survived. Secondly, there were quite a few others in the school parking lot with more pouring in and I had to stay low and be as unassuming as possible for a new girl in a small town. Those points severely limited my options.

But I really should start from earlier that morning.

When I woke up, I had no kinks in my neck and no slight discomfort in my back and no lumps digging into my sides. To say I was confused was a bit of an understatement. During the night, my hand wound its way under the pillow to grab my switchblade, so I twisted out of a mess of purple sheets, knife in hand, ready to attack before I was fully coherent. Noting that my only opponent was an extremely purple room I calmed down, remembering my relocation to Forks.

Charlie left a packaged toothbrush in the bathroom next to a fresh tube of toothpaste, for which I was grateful. My mouth still felt gross, as I haven't had the time to brush my teeth since I was drugged a couple days ago. I was still wearing my outfit from yesterday, a pair of sweats with a white shirt. Or maybe it was gray? Either way, I didn't have too many stains on me so I proceeded down the stairs. I snuck around the main floor for a while, checking that no one was hiding behind the couch or something. Then I sauntered around casually, examining the outside through the windows for any search outs.

When I was satisfied that the home base was secure, I chugged down some breakfast. To be precise, some milk from the carton and two floppy pieces of sliced bread. My stomach was churning at the thought of eight hours with high school aged children, but I would stupid to pass up an opportunity for sustenance.

Just as I was ready to leave, I noticed a backpack by the door. After checking its contents, I was once again pleasantly surprised at Charlie's generosity. It held a few notebooks and folders that I might need for school. I certainly couldn't take my own backpack, as it would only take one clumsy student to bump into it before some bomb was set off, and going without a backpack at all would be too conspicuous. Not wanting to go completely unarmed, I strapped a knife to my ankle and checked that my semi-auto was still at my hip and loaded. I ran my hands through my hair a few times before I left. It was a bit greasy but not too bad.

I jumped into my truck and reveled in the feel of twisting the key to start it up. I drove around for a while until I saw the sign for Forks High School: Home of the Spartans. It looked as if it was being eaten alive by vines and foliage—the school as well as the notice. I would have missed the turn if I wasn't paying close attention. Not that it would have mattered too much either way. When I pulled into the parking lot, there were no cars in the student section, and only a few in the teachers' spaces. I slumped back in my seat with a huff. I guess I should have checked when the school day started.

I hung around in the truck for a few minutes, wasting time by picking my nails, but then felt like a bump on a log so I slung my new bag over one shoulder and entered the school building. It seemed pretty small for a school, but, of course, I didn't have much as a point of reference. To my left was a set of double doors to the auditorium. To my right were two hallways with doors leading to what I assumed were a mixture of classrooms, bathrooms, and janitors' closets. Directly to my right was a door labeled "Office". After an awkwardly unsure moment, I decided that showing myself in would be too bold, so I knocked.

"Come in!" An overly sweet, high pitched voice called from behind the door. I gulped and pulled at the knob. As I stepped in, I had a brief internal battle about closing the door behind me or not. After some thought, I decided leaving it open a crack would be my best bet. Nevertheless, I kept my hand on the knob just in case I would need a quick escape.

The Forks High School office was plethora of greenery, as if there wasn't enough of it outside. Potted plants littered every table surface and any available space along the walls. There was even a small cactus sitting idly by, bent under the weight of overwatering. It made me flinch a bit, as it reminded me of Renee. She always overwatered the cacti in our home in Arizona. Even though I was small, I distinctly remembered once asking my mother why our potted "Mickey Mouse" always looked so tired. Renee would giggle self-consciously and reply "I think I gave it a little too much water, honey. I guess I'll just wait longer this time before watering again. That's all." The poor cactus would go without water for months until it turned brown and brittle. Finally, Phil would put his foot down and throw it out. Mom usually bought a replacement the very next day.

It was so strange how I remembered the seemingly insignificant things about my parents. Phil would always curl his toes after sitting down in his favorite armchair. Renee would always sing Britney songs when doing chores around the house. I could clearly recall how happy it made me when my dad would give Mom a clumsy kiss when she was in the middle of something, and she would blush and giggle. It was those minute details of everyday life that I coveted the most. They gave me a sense of hope, I think.

Of course, there was also the flip side of memory lane. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get a hold of my parent's faces. My brain would only barf up their mangled visages that were barely recognizable as belonging to a human. I didn't remember what color eyes Phil had, or recall the exact shade burgundy of Renee's hair. Without any pictures, I had no way of refreshing my reminiscence. All I had were fading memories.

I shook myself out of my musings by examining the rest of room. The walls were a pale, chipping yellow that reminded me of pus. There were a few chairs along one wall with worn, green cushions for seats and a matching couch at the other end of the room. The carpet's magenta tried, but failed, to cover up stains that told stories of rushed coffee breaks and muddy walks. In the back of the small, square room, there was a desk that took up most of the far wall. It was covered in an orderly disarray of papers, coasters, and office supplies. My eyes widened at what I saw next.

The lady at the desk was staring at me strangely with a far off look in her pasty gray eyes. She had short, orange, and extremely permed hair framing an aging face covered in too much makeup. There was a coral lipstick stain on her yellow, crooked teeth. Her smile widened.

"Hello dear!" she squeaked. My eyes jerked around, suddenly suspicious. I know it was superficial of me, but I just couldn't help myself. In my experience, a criminal attempting to blend in looked just as over-the-top as her. I tensed for armed guards who would undoubtedly jump out from the overstuffed couch. Of course they never came, but someone else did.

"Shelly! Have you-"

My instincts kicked in immediately. The movement and sound came from behind me; behind the door. So, I pushed back with the hand still on the doorknob until I met resistance.

"Shit," I heard the person curse in a high-pitched voice. I turned and was met by the sight of a balding man clutching his reddening hand to his chest, fighting back tears. A second passed and I blinked, remembering myself. My head was ringing with the prospect of a battle, but I knew this man didn't deserve to die. He was too far below my abilities. I must not kill him, I chanted.

Shelly got up in a hurry and floundered her way over to our side of the room. She was wearing a white shirt that I could clearly see her bra through and a skirt that showed off her extensive muffin top. She waved her hands around helplessly as the injured man made these repetitive grunting noises. At this point, I was considering taking my chances sneaking through the door, now blocked by two figures.

"Mr. Banner," She exclaimed slowly and clearly, as if his injury was to his ear and not his hand, "are you alright?"

Mr. Banner's hand was starting to swell, but he straightened up anyway and smiled through a grimace. He nodded in assurance to Shelly, fixed his colorful tie, and faced me.

"You must be the new student? Isabella Swan?" Mr. Banner extended his injured right hand before retracting it and offering his left carefully. Heat rose up my face.

"Yeah…sorry," I managed to choke out. I began twirling my hair in agitation. My muscles were tense and still thought it was killing time.

"Oh yes!" Shelly piped up and smiled at me again. I saw some spinach stuck in her teeth. My own tongue began searching through my mouth, just in case. She raced back to the desk and picked out a few papers.

"You're Isabella Swan," she paused. I nodded. She continued, "I knew it. You look just like your father!" She paused again, looking at me expectantly. I shrugged. Well, at least the locals were buying the story. But doesn't news travel fast around Forks? I didn't even know I was going to be here until recently. She finally looked as uncomfortable as I felt and stuck the papers into my chest.

"There you'll find a map of the school, your schedule, the school policy, and all. I'm Mrs. Cope, and if you need any help don't hesitate to ask me, any of the teachers, or a student." Yeah, right. I began to back out, my eyes twitching from Mrs. Cope to Mr. Banner. He gave me a confused wave while cradling his hand. As soon as I was out of sight, I ran. I ran out to my loyal Chevy, the only thing I could trust around here.

I slid down into the driver's seat, breathing heavily and clutching the papers. My eyes clenched shut and I whimpered. I couldn't do this. That must have been a rather average encounter with only two other human beings, and I was already freaked out. Cars started pouring into the parking lot, and I knew I had to make the decision. I started mumbling to myself and rocking. Esme's voice echoed through my head.

"_So are you just going to lay there feeling sorry for yourself you little bitch!" She was screaming at me. She just kept screaming. It hurt. I hurt. I was on the floor. Her words were swimming in my head, molding together. However, even in such a state I was trained enough to perceive the movement towards me. I twitched to attack, but couldn't bring myself to move._

"_Move! Survive! Go!" She kept yelling; the man kept approaching. This was an exercise. Pitting two people against each other, and then whoever was left got to live another day. No rules applied, as long as it was every-man-for-himself. I was nine and my opponent was a 25 year old man who was bigger than a truck. I heard others jeer and holler around me, but only her voice registered. I twitched again._

_What if I just didn't move? What if I died? Then I'd see them again…_

"_Oh no you don't! Make the choice, girl! Don't you fucking dare embarrass me!" My eyes flickered and I saw a hilt. Anger flooded through me. I will live. Pain burned through me and I screamed. I didn't know what it was, but I grabbed it and stabbed upwards blindly. Wrong choice? _

_Then the world went black._

My eyes snapped open. I wasn't breathing. I shook my head of any thoughts and my indifferent visage returned. I opened the door and confidently left my car. This was nothing but another exercise. I have even been given tools to improve my chances of survival. As I strode back to the school, I opened the map and schedule Mrs. Cope gave me. Before the day officially began, I could acquaint myself with my classes and all of the exits, rooms, locks, and passages of the school. Just in case.

Suddenly something was in front of me. I skidded to a stop in a puddle, splashing murky water on my pants. I looked up angrily into the face of a very smug looking boy. He was chubby, pasty, and put on far too much cologne that morning. Not to mention the boy's pants were half way to the ground. I glared at him for a second and moved to the side. He moved with me.

"Excuse me," I murmured and tried again. His smirk grew wider. I gritted my teeth. _Do not kill any of the students_. Stupid letter.

"Watch where you're going," he licked his lips. Some of his friends gathered around and chuckled. It was obvious where they got their style choices from. I quickly took inventory in case the situation turned ugly. A kid with greasy hair stood on his left, and a dark skinned tall kid stood to his right. I could easily take them in a fight, especially since the greasy one seemed so apprehensive. I took a breath in and out; I moved forward.

His hand reached out to my shoulder roughly, and stopped me. I saw red.

"_Fight,"_

I lifted my gaze up to meet his. Chubby's grin wavered, but remained in place. I grinned back. He knew I was the predator, and he was my prey. The stupid boy just wouldn't admit it to himself.

"_Show no fear,"_

"I asked you to move," I repeated in a clear voice.

"_Remember, that even if no one dies, you must be the one on top. You have to leave that arena with everybody knowing that you would have killed the guy."_

"Why don't you make me, babe?" His double chins wobbled. I was ready. I tried moving around him again, anticipating that he would stop me. Chubby didn't disappoint. His arm shot out, so I grabbed and pulled it back. He jumped back in pain, whimpering. His friends marched forward with their fists out. Amateurs.

I easily whipped the tall kid's hands away and kneed him in the balls. He fell. This was too easy. The greasy kid looked unsure and nervous. He looked at the cowering leader behind him and back to me, classic case of following orders or going rouge. Feeling sorry for the guy, I just kicked his legs out from under him.

That was nothing, but adrenaline was still pumping through my limbs. My shoulder twitched. I approached Chubby, gaining satisfaction out of how he seemed to curl into himself at my gaze. Then I turned and walked away. Being in high school was making me feel so bad ass; it did wonders for the old ego. Plus, that fight took my mind off the fact that about a hundred students were currently gathered around, staring with their beady eyes. I slowed down.

Oh shit.

I glanced at their faces; the expressions differed. The majority were staring at me in anger and Chubby with sympathy. A few were looking at me like I was a godsend. Nobody moved yet except for me and the parking lot was filled with dead silence. I stared down at my map and schedule abruptly and increased my pace.

"Wait!" a girl's voice huffed behind me and the spell was broken. The students began chatting with each other again. I looked to my side and there was a girl with curly brown hair who was a bit shorter than I was.

"Hi! I'm Jessica, but you can call me Jess or Jessie" She flipped her hair. I didn't respond.

"So that was really cool, you know? Mikey totally deserved that, but you were a bit harsh. You must be Isabella? The chief's daughter? That is so cool, but at the same time kind of lame. Your dad must be really strict and stuff." She stopped for a breath and I looked on incredulously, but kept walking. Let's see how much information I can get from her without saying a word.

"Anyway, I like you, Isabella. You should, like, totally come sit with us at lunch today. I'll take you under my wing because here's the secret," she leaned into my ear a bit, "I'm kind of queen bee of the popular crowd here, you know? You are the new kid and all, but you'll be safe with me." She winked. _I think I can take care of my own safety_, I thought. Did I not just prove it?

We entered the school and an excited boy quickly opened the door for Jessica. She stuck out her chest and smiled at him. He appeared star struck. I rolled my eyes. Jessica's hand moved to mine, and I let her proceed. She grabbed my schedule, looking over it with gossip-hungry eyes.

"Ahh!" she squealed, "We have Spanish together! But, omigod, you have so many nerd classes." I grabbed my paper out of her hands and left to English.

"Okidokie!" Jessica called after me, "I'll see you in Spanish and lunch!"

With that, I headed to English to start the school day.

**XXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**Guess who's alive? Come on, guess!**

**Yup, that's right. I'm back like the Terminator! I'm back like Randy Quaig! Heck, I'm back like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover from that Lethal Weapon movie!**

**Back to serious matters (where we ever in serious matters?), this chapter was incredibly difficult to write. I feel like I couldn't wrap up my ideas well and it got boring in some parts.**

**Ha! Anyway, give me some feedback or hate or love in the form of a review.**


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